


from summer she is made

by brookethenerd



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:33:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22596352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: Steve and the reader have spent every summer together since they were 8 (aka an au based on this is my idea from the swan princess)
Relationships: Steve Harrington/Reader, Steve Harrington/You
Kudos: 44





	from summer she is made

The cabin sat at the edge of the lake, dark logs cracked and dotted with moss, stretching two stories into the trees, boasting three bedrooms, water access, and a fireplace big enough for Santa Claus to slide down, if he so wished. It’s a towering thing, the only home on that side of the lake, dominating the acreage.

When you were eight, your parents went in on the place with the Harrington’s, their long-time business partners and longer-time friends. According to them, it was one of those once in a lifetime deals, a chance they couldn’t afford to miss. They boasted of summers on the water, swimming or fishing or exploring the woods, all of which were incredibly appealing to an eight-year-old. What wasn’t appealing, however, was the catch: the Harrington’s son, a boy your age named Steve.

That first summer, you pulled up the gravel drive to find another car parked in front of the cabin, the Harrington’s carrying bags inside, a boy with floppy brown hair and a space where his front teeth should be making himself at home and digging up the dirt.

“You and Steve get to spend all summer together,” your mother assured you, hands settling on your shoulders. At eight, you had neither the knowledge nor the motivation to lie, and you turned to face your parents with a pronounced pout, arms folded against your chest.

“I don’t want to,” you whined. Your father rolled his eyes and headed inside after the Harrington’s, and your mother gave you a reassuring smile.

“You’ll be great friends,” she said. “Won’t it be fun to have a friend to play with each summer?”

It was not, in fact, fun to have a friend to play with when that friend was a snotty, loud, eight-year-old Steve Harrington. He spent the entirety of that first summer running you ragged and driving you crazy, slinging mud pies your way and popping out from behind trees to scare you.

You hated Steve Harrington. You really, really hated him.

* * *

When you were ten, you finally matched Steve in height, taking the long-held advantage and meeting him at his level. The moment you pulled up and climbed out of the car to greet the Harrington’s, Steve’s lips pulled into a snarky grin and he announced to his parents, “Y/N turned into a giraffe this year!” to which you bounded across the grass and tackled him to the dirt, utilizing your newfound strength.

Your parents went about the usual routine of dragging bags in and unpacking the necessities, you and Steve heading straight for the lake. You kept pace with him this year, chasing him through the trees and leaping over fallen branches, your laughter ringing through the canopies. You hit the sandy beach first, sneakers enveloped by the soft ground. Steve didn’t stop himself quickly enough, ramming right into you and nearly taking you both down in the process. You shoved him away with a grumble of complaint, and he returned the push, and you lunged for him again, dragging both of you into the sand.

The water lapped at your sneakers and you caught your balance, your mother’s warning not to get dirty ringing in your head. You attempted to step forward and slip around Steve, making it back to sturdy, safe, sandy ground, but Steve hooked an arm through yours and _tugged_.

You toppled backward, barely managing to catch yourself on your elbows as you slammed into the ground - and into the lake. The cold water was like a slap to the face, and you struggled to your feet, knee-deep in the reservoir. You settled a vicious glare on Steve, who stood a foot beyond the lapping waves, a triumphant grin on his face.

“I hate you,” you snapped.

“Sucks to suck!” He said, doing a little victory dance. When he smiled, it revealed the gap between his front teeth, one still missing. You resisted the urge to march forward and punch him in the mouth to even out his stupid smile.

Your clothes were sopping, the cold seeping beneath the damp fabric and chilling you down to your bones. Your mother was going to kill you if hypothermia didn’t.

“You’re a jerk!”

“Not my fault you’re too slow.”

“I am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

Steve laughed, head tipped back, eyes shut, and you took the opportunity when you saw it, pushing back onto the shore and grasping Steve’s shirt. You dragged him toward you, and the moment his body was parallel with yours you turned and shoved, sending him into the waves with a splash.

He came up spewing water, hair sticking up every which way. Mischief with a hint of anger played on his features, and you saw his intention to move before he did it, easily ducking his water-logged lunge. You skipped out of reach, safe on the shore, though dripping wet and covered in muck from the lake floor.

The game went on that way for hours, and only when the sun started to dip below the trees did you and Steve slog back through the woods to the cabin, where your furious parents forced you to stand against the wood as they hosed you both off. The entire time you spent pressed to the wall, cold water hosing you off, your only thought was _I hate Steve Harrington._ You didn’t think you could ever feel differently about your frustrating, annoying, summer companion; you were wrong.

* * *

The tides shifted imperceptibly the summer of your thirteenth year, though you only see it now that you have the capacity to look back.

Your family arrived after the Harrington’s, as per usual, and you carried your bags in with your family to find Steve and his parents in the kitchen unpacking food into the cupboards and fridge. He’d grown since you last saw him, the few inches you’d had on him disappearing and turning the other way, giving him almost a full foot on you. He turned at your entrance, and you were surprised to see his lips quirk up in a smile; you were even more surprised at the flop in your belly, the twinge and flutter and drop. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost scary, surely unidentifiable. Something had changed between you and the boy from the summer, and it would continue to do so every summer after.

Sometime around sunset, once everyone was settled in place, the parents already on the back porch with wine, a trio of three local boys from across the lake wandered up to the door, asking for Steve.

“Where are you going?” You asked, watching from the kitchen doorway as Steve shrugged a hoodie on and unsteadily hopped into sneakers. He paused long enough to toss an irritated look your way.

“Going out,” he said. “What are you, my mom?”

Frustration coiled inside you, but shame burned beneath it, and that only made you angrier.

“Screw you.”

His lip curled, boyish defiance radiating as he puffed his chest. He was still gangly and lanky, not quite grown into his larger form, and his jeans rose just a bit too high above his ankles. He was half teenager, half child, somewhere in the middle.

“That’s why you weren’t invited,” he sneered. “Because you’re a _pest_.”

“And you’re a dick!” You’d overheard Steve’s mother slapping the insult at his father, and it was the most impressive in your ever-growing vocabulary of curses.

“Stop being a baby.”

It was hardly the most offensive of comments, but to a thirteen-year-old - perpetually jostled between child and adult - it stung. You recoiled, anger only escalating when tears pricked in the back of your eyes.

“I hate you,” you said, willing your voice to stay even. Steve scoffed, crossing his arms.

“The feeling’s mutual.” He left without another word, leaving you burning with shame and hatred in the entryway.

* * *

For the first time in the nine years, it was your family that arrived at the cabin first. The wooden structure had never been all that nice to begin with, though well kept, and its wear was starting to show. You didn’t mind it’s deficiencies; you loved the moss-covered slats, the cracked rock pathway leading to the porch, even the spider-webbed ceilings. Though you hated the place as a child, it was more out of spite and less due to the actuality of the cabin.

Of course, Steve Harrington had been a factor in the dread the cabin used to bring. Now, at seventeen, the dread had been replaced by something different. Something you refused to admit, even to yourself, outside of the darkness of your bed at night. A feeling that twisted and gnawed and ached. You’d hoped being reunited with the annoying and confusing boy of your summers would clear up the chaos inside you; it didn’t go that way.

Your parents were out on the dock taking in the view when the Harrington’s arrived. Steve came in first, and his lips curled up in a wide grin when he spotted you in the living room. The rivalry of childhood still remained, but it wasn’t as vicious anymore; it was more out of tradition than hatred. You didn’t know when it had happened, whether it was a bang or a whisper or a slow unravel; you didn’t know what it meant.

All you knew was that when he saw you, Steve crossed the room and wrapped you in a hug. All you knew was that the knot in your stomach only tightened with his arms around you, and your confusion only deepened.

Later that night, once your parents were well into their third shared bottle of wine, you and Steve escaped to the dock. It was another tradition, though a few years ago, it would have involved shoving one another _off_ the dock and into the lake.

Now, though, you simply sat beside one another, sneakers hanging over the edges, listening to the quiet lapping of the water and the clicking of the cicadas in the trees.

“It’s summary time,” you said. “You’ve got thirty seconds to hit the highlights. Ready, go.”

Steve grinned and leaned back on his hands, swinging his feet, sneakers tapping the surface of the water. He’d never been ugly, but the last year had changed him from boy to something close to man. There was still a boyishness to his features, still a lightness to his step, but he was calmer than the rambunctious nine-year-old you’d met.

“I passed all my classes-”

“A miracle.”

“-and I made the basketball team. And there’s this…girl,” he said, lips quirking up at the last word, and your chest twisted painfully. “I mean, who knows if she’ll ever go for a dumb jock, but I think I have a shot.”

You wanted to force a smile, to assure him that he was surely good enough for her, give him advice on wooing the girl that was lucky enough to catch his eye. The girl that knew him in the Fall, in the Winter, in the Spring. He was your summer boy, but he’d bled into the other months, latching on and holding tight, dominating your thoughts.

You snorted. “Someone’s got an ego.”

His brows furrowed, face falling, hurt flickering in his eyes for a beat before he slammed his walls up and his jaw tightened. His expression smoothed, his eyes narrowed, and he was someone else, someone colder and harsher, someone you didn’t know; not the Steve of your summers.

“Right, I forgot,” he said. “You only like talking about yourself.”

“Right, _I forgot_. You’re a raging dick,” you retorted. It felt good to release the anger, to shove it at him after so many months of conflicting emotions; it felt good to slap it onto someone else. Even if he didn’t deserve it.

“It’s gonna be a long summer,” he said, tearing his gaze from yours, words cutting you like knives.

 _I hate you_ , you thought half-heartedly. But you didn’t believe it. You didn’t hate him; you didn’t hate him even a little bit.

* * *

When you were eighteen you drove up separate from your parents, having to linger at home and work a few shifts you couldn’t get anyone to trade. You join them the night after they arrive, and by the time you arrive, the four adults are, unsurprisingly, growing louder as they drink on the back porch. You don’t bother greeting them, carting your things into the small bedroom you’ve occupied every summer since you were eight years old.

Having deposited your bags on the floor by the closet, you dropped onto the creaky bed and flopped back, letting out a breath. _Finally_ , you thought, _quiet_.

“Knock, knock.” Steve tugged open your door and tapped a ¾ bottle of rum against the frame, lips curling up in a wide grin. Your stomach flipped at the smile he flashed you; it only grew more dazzling as he grew older. He’d filled out more, lean and muscular, no longer the gangly boy you’d tackled on the shore of the lake.

“Where on earth did you get that?”

“Where do you think?” He jerked a chin in the direction of the back porch. “Those toddlers will never notice it’s gone.”

“Fair enough,” you said. “You start without me?”

He feigned innocence, pushing the door open further and standing in the doorway.

“What? I would never.”

“You would,” you said, pushing past him, popping the bottle out of his hands and heading for the door. Steve followed, and you slipped out the side door, picking your way down the path to the dock. It was dark and rough, but ten years of traipsing through these woods made it easy to navigate. Within minutes you reached the dock, heading to the edge and dropping down.

The moon hung high and bright in the sky, reflecting off the lake and washing everything in a pale white glow. The wind carried gently across the water, not cold enough to be bothersome, and the cicadas sang their familiar songs from the trees.

You twisted off the cap and handed the bottle to Steve, who took a long drag. He winced and thrust the bottle back toward you. You grinned and took it, enjoying the show he made out of trying not to react to the burn. You drank, unable to suppress the shudder at the fire that ran down your throat.

“ _God_ ,” you said. “Fucking horrible.”

“Actual poison,” Steve agreed, taking another long swig. You matched it, passing the bottle silently back and forth for a few minutes until your mind went fuzzy and warmth traced through your veins. Between you, the alcohol level had fallen to below half.

“So,” you said. “Last time I heard, you were still with that girl. What was her name?”

Steve paused, tensing.

“Nancy,” he said. “And I’m not, anymore.”

“Shit. I’m sorry,” you said. It was half true; you were sorry if he was hurting, but you couldn’t help the prick of joy at his singularity. He shrugged.

“S’okay. I mean, it wasn’t, not when it happened. But a lot of other shit went down, too, and I don’t know. I guess I just kinda realized it didn’t matter.”

“Still. It always sucks.”

He smiled and nudged your shoe with his.

“What about you? Anybody I should be jealous of?” It was clearly a tease, but it sent a jolt of electricity through you, and you prayed your expression didn’t show it. You forced a laugh.

“As per usual,” you said, “no.”

“Give it time.”

“Thank you, o’ wise one.”

He snorted and took another drink. A comfortable silence settled beneath you, and you let your focus settle on the water beneath the dock, surface rippling with the wind.

“Can I ask you something?” Steve asked a while later.

The alcohol sang in your blood, loosening your tongue and lowering your inhibitions, and a conversation that could turn deep was certainly not a great idea, but you were too fuzzy and light to care. You nodded.

“Do you still hate me?”

You frowned, the brazenness of the question shocking you. You licked your lips slowly before shifting halfway in his direction. He caught your gaze, and you were trapped beneath it.

“I never did,” you said, voice surprisingly even.

“You _totally_ did. You told me nearly every day.”

You smiled lightly and shook your head.

“I don’t think I ever really did. I _wanted_ to. But I didn’t.” _You couldn’t._

“Wanted to?”

“It was easier,” you said, the logic revealing itself to you as you spoke the words. “If I hated you, then that meant I didn’t…” you flicked a glance at him, and averted your gaze, “It was just easier that way.”

“If you hated me, then you didn’t _what_?”

You inhaled sharply, giving him a pleading half-smile. But he didn’t falter.

“Didn’t what?”

“ _Love you_ ,” you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. They hung between you in the silence; it seemed even the cicadas were stunned speechless by your confession.

You didn’t allow yourself to meet his gaze for a full five seconds, too afraid of what you’d see. When you did, though, it wasn’t hatred or shock in his eyes. It was something different; something blazing.

After another agonizing moment, his lips curled up in a smile, and he reached out to trace his thumb along your cheekbone, letting his hand settle on your cheek. You tilted your chin up to meet him when he bent toward you, lips brushing yours ever so softly, tasting of rum and something sweet; presumably one of the many sodas he had stocked in the fridge.

Your lips parted against his and you leaned toward him, threading your fingers in his hair and tugging him closer. It wasn’t the most graceful of kisses, not the most deft, not the most smooth, but it was _yours_ , and that made it the best of your life.

“Wait,” Steve murmured against your lips, pulling back ever so slightly. “So, you _don’t_ hate me?”

You laughed, said, “Shut up,” and pulled him back to you.

You loved Steve Harrington. You really, really loved him.


End file.
